Scott had been out of the prescription nose spray for several days and the doctor had finally called it in earlier that day.
If I didn’t get cards in the mail by the next day, they would not arrive before Halloween.
Needless to say, the trip to Wal-Mart was overdue. We vowed before we went in that we were only going to buy those two things – nose spray and cards. This was NOT going to be one of those spend-$100-in-less-than-1-hour trips. We were just going to run it, get the stuff, and run out before we were sucked in. Thankfully, the pharmacy and the card aisle are just a few yards apart and right by the exit. We didn’t have to walk far. Or run, as was our case.
As we walked between the cards and the vitamin aisle on the way to check out, for some strange reason Scott just happened to think about the cherry turnovers that, in our town, you can only buy at Wal-Mart. Or course, they are in the refrigerated grocery section in the complete opposite corner of the store.
Knowing that our cupboard is completely bare but not wanting to take the time to do the full re-stocking shopping, I agreed to at least one treat. I’m anticipating a glorious trip to Publix this weekend because we’re out of cereal and soup and grits and deli meat and cheese and everything else, but we do need to eat something in the meantime. Cherry turnovers it is.
We put our blinders on and headed to the cold corner. Even though their shelf placement had changed, we found the cherry turnovers and turned to leave.
Almost free. But then something else caught our eyes.
I’m not a big cherry turnover fan. I’m really not a big sweets fan, but I do like a good sugar cookie every now and then. The Pillsbury Doughboy was calling my name. In the spirit of Halloween, of course. I reasoned (justified…rationalized…!) that we weren’t buying any candy for the occasion, so 24 Spooky Cat pre-cut ready to bake cookies would be OK.
So, with nose spray, Halloween cards, cherry turnovers, and ready to bake sugar cookies, we finally got out of there. Whew.
That was a couple of days ago. It wasn’t until last night that I pulled the cookies out of the fridge to actually put them on a pan and bake them. Of course, my first reflex when I opened the box was to want to put one of the raw cookies in my mouth.
But then, I must tell you, I never felt more loved than when I read this on the box:
“Please do not eat raw cookie dough.”
They said it like they actually cared about me. And they put it right there on the front of the box instead of in small print under all the unpronounceable ingredients.
They could have said it like this:
"WARNING: Eating raw cookie dough could be hazardous to your health."
This would have sounded like they were trying to scare me, and they would have. I would have heard James Earl Jones’ voice in my head saying, “Danger, danger…”
Or they could have even just “Do not eat raw cookie dough,” without the “please.”
This one would have been voiced by Ben Stein in my head. Emotionless and not really caring one way or the other about the effects of raw dough on a human.
But, “Please do not eat the raw cookie dough” is written as if the Pillsbury Doughboy himself were saying it, followed by that giggly little chuckle that comes out when you poke him in the stomach.
Of course, Mr. Doughboy. Since you asked to nicely, I’ll not eat that raw dough.
Funny that I even noticed those words.
Interesting that they actually influenced what I was thinking and my subsequent actions.
How we say things is just as important as what we say.
If I speak with human eloquence and angelic ecstasy but don't love, I'm nothing but the creaking of a rusty gate. 1 Corinthians 13:1